


Bone-Picked Teeth

by pilotisms



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: And So Does Obi-wan, Casual Murder, Coruscant (Star Wars), Darth Maul Adoption Squad, Darth Maul Lives, Enemies to Paid Hire to Lovers, F/M, He's a Sith with Daddy Issues, I Love Women Who Can Kick My Ass, Just General Back-Stabbing in Politics, Obi-Wan Kenobi is a Mess, Reader-Insert, Senator Reader - Freeform, Sith Obi-Wan Kenobi, Sith Politics, Whoops I Mean LoRd FoRtEm, qui-gon is dead
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-06
Updated: 2020-01-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:47:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22141279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pilotisms/pseuds/pilotisms
Summary: Obi-wan Kenobi has long since been dead. In his place, Darth Fortem stands. A Sith Lord working in the background during the Clone Wars, he's hired to murder a newly elected Corellian Senator stirring up problems for the syndicates back home.Against his better judgement, he lets her live. And her own wickedness surprises him.Cue a tumultuous relationship built on the backbone of questionable morals.
Relationships: Obi-Wan Kenobi/Reader, Sith Obi-wan Kenobi/Reader
Comments: 50
Kudos: 646





	1. BUT A HUMBLE MESSENGER.

You wake to a glove muffling your mouth.

“Ah, ah.”

With a gut-wrenching hiss, a lightsaber ignites and in the light of the blood red weapon, you see _him._

Darth Fortem.

_Whispers_ follow him. 

He moves through the room with the same amount of measured grace you’d expect from a Jedi fallen from the Order. 

In your bed, you sit frozen. This Sith Lord moves about the room quietly, red saber trained closely to your throat as his boots step one over the other. The crackling, volatile weapon paints the Coruscant apartment’s walls crimson as he looks about – golden eyes glow eerily in the dark.

He’s listening. 

You can feel the heat on your face, chin raised in defiance as the Sith stills at a sound outside the bedroom.

It’s the Corellian Royal Guard. He’s doing his rounds. 

You steady your breath as the Guard stops, listens and waits. Fear grips you tightly as you scramble up the bed and press yourself tightly to the headboard – and then, the footsteps retreat. 

The intruder exhales, head lolling to the side as he rolls his shoulders and inhales. He turns on a heel, points at you, and cocks his head to the side.

“Make a sound, and I’ll slit your throat.”

Quickly, he moves across the room and kill his saber – black gloved hands fix the curved hilt to his hip as you scramble from bed, moving quickly to gather the blaster pistol in your bedside table. It’s raised in a defiant grip, anger guiding your actions as you stop the Sith in his steps. 

“Now, now,” he croons, rather unamused, as he rolls his eyes, “There’s no need for _that_ , Senator –”

“Who are you?” you seethe, stepping from beside the bed as he moves across the room, rather unbothered by the fact there’s a DC-17trained at his skull. 

“Does that _truly_ matter?” he says, waving a hand, “The only thing _you_ need to know, is that I am sparing your life.”

Your lip twitches. 

“Why?”

“My, my,” the Sith chirps, turning on a heel and eyeing you in the darkness of your bedroom, “You’re just _full_ of questions, aren’t you?”

“Shut up.”

You shove the blaster forward, teeth gritted.

“… Do you even know how to _use_ that thing?”

Promptly, you fire a blaster bolt directly beside his head. It’s a warning shot – one that shuts the Sith Lord up _quickly,_ considering his rather suave attitude. Gold eyes blink, lips quirking with a sudden sense of amusement. The Sith then _laughs,_ crossing his arms and stroking his beard. 

“I asked you a question,” you seethe, stepping closer. Your nightgown, opalescent silk and intricately embroidered, catches his attention. 

He lets his eyes roam. Your lip snarls.

The guards will be up here soon – he _knows_ it.

“I,” he offers, then, rather suddenly, “am Darth Fortem. And _I_ am sparing your life – and with this in mind, I trust you will realize the _problems_ you’re causing for some… _angry_ constituents back home, Senator.”

_ Crimson Dawn.  _

Your gut sinks. 

“Who hired you?”

Another eye roll. He moves, then, into the light of the Coruscant moon and you finally get a good look at him. 

He’s handsome – young enough, with sandy blonde hair and a well-groomed beard; his eyes are golden, rimmed with dark lashes. There are markings crawling up the side of his neck, something in a language that looks similar to Dathomirian, that dip below a jet black collar. Deep crimson robes swath his torso, and the accents of black leather lend themselves to make you believe this Sith is _well paid._

“You’re staring.”

“You’re a _thug_.”

“Hardly,” he offers, planting a boot on the window sill and throwing open the window – outside, a jet-black cruiser is waiting, “I am but a _humble messenger,_ m’lady.”

“Then why don’t you tell those _angry constituents to eat dirt!”_ you holler, voice hoarse, as he starts up the engine and smirks. 

With two fingers, he tosses you a salute, and speeds off into the night. 


	2. AN EXTENDED OLIVE BRANCH.

“Someone isn’t very good at _listening_.”

Darth Fortem can _feel_ your eye roll from across the open-air balcony when he makes a point of announcing his presence with the dig; he’s docked his ship at the end of the ornate landing pad – you’re across the patio, back to him, and dropping ice cubes into some crystal glass with a dainty little pair of tongs. 

“I believe I gave you a warning, Senator.”

Your guards, startled by the sudden arrival of the Sith Lord are wide-eyed and on high alert, blasters trained at the ready. 

But, you simply wave one hand, without even looking up from the drink you’re making, and the men stand down hesitantly. 

“This gentleman and I will be just a minute.”

And with that, they retreat into the suite and leave you with the visiting Sith for the time being. 

“Drink?” you ask over your shoulder lightly.

He’s nicer to look at with the sun setting behind him – Coruscant hums by and the Senate District is as alive as ever. Your balcony, posed towards the setting sun, is gilded in the colors of the sky. This… _Darth Fortem_ character is less imposing in the light of the day. Handsome, even. Devilishly, so.

And _you_ – you’re just as beautiful as the rumors had said. Swathed in a ruby red gown with a high-neck, hair pulled into two intricate braids that wind along the crown of your head, he’d just as assume you were _royalty._ The ornate, golden circlet woven into your hair glimmers as you turn to him in question. 

“If you’re offering.”

“I am,” you bite, popping the cork of a crystal bottle and pouring what he suspects is shandy in a matching glass, “and yet again, you’re _intruding_.”

“Well, I would have called ahead –”

“You’re not here to _kill me_ ,” you cut him off, turning back around with two glasses in your hand. You stalk forward, eyes narrowed in on his face. You can see those tattoos better now, the ones trailing down his neck, and confirm your own suspicions of their Dathomirian origin. You offer him his glass, “Not in broad daylight, at least.”

“You seem rather confident in that, Senator,” he remarks, taking the glass in black gloved hands. He eyes the drink. 

You notice.

“Oh, I _am_ ,” you chirrup as you settle on one of the plush, crimson couches, “and don’t worry. If I was going to _poison_ you, I wouldn’t be so obvious about it.”

He scoffs. Then sips the brandy. You do the same, watching as he trails about – he’s looking around, eyeing the apartment. If you hadn’t known any better, you’d think he was _admiring it._

But, you know better.

“Do you enjoy this, then?” he asks a bit pointedly, “The luxury, the cat and mouse game of politics?”

“As opposed to the life I led before all this?” you quirk a brow and laugh haughtily, “I’m beginning to wonder if whoever _hired you_ told you anything about me, Darth… what was it? _Farce? Fargone?_ It starts with an F… doesn’t it?”

Oh, he _hates_ that he laughs. 

“Fortem.”

“Ah, yes,” you raise a finger, “And did you pick that yourself?”

The Sith settles on the couch opposite you, then, wondering _when_ this became _your_ game to play – though, he supposes he should have suspected as much from a politician. You are _wickedly_ _cunning_.

“It was given to me,” he bites pointedly, swigging the drink, “As are titles usually within the Sith.”

“ _Given_ , you say? Interesting,” you hum, nails tinkering against the glass as you speak, “Well, Darth Fortem, then you’ll perhaps you may not understand, but I wasn’t _given_ the title of Senator. I _earned it.”_

_Oh._ Oh, you’re a spitfire. That much they mentioned. Had you not held a blaster to his head to prove it upon your first meeting, _this_ sudden shift in your posture and tone _does._

“The people who hired you,” you wave your hand dismissively, “Be it Crimson Dawn, Pykes, Hutts… They _truly_ lack understanding of that _one thing,_ Lord Fortem. That I’ve _earned this._ I’ve _been trodded on_ by the likes of them my whole life. I’ve stolen my meals and lived on the streets and worked for my freedom, all at the hands of those _power-hungry mongrels.”_

_“_ Are you trying to sway me?” he asks rather bluntly, tilting his head, “Make me feel pity?”

“Oh, gods _no_. That would be _embarrassing_ ,” you mutter absent-mindedly, “No, what I’m trying to tell you is that I’m going to pay you ten fold your current price if you _kill_ the person who hired you.”

_ Oh.  _

You… You just _continue to surprise._

“You look shocked.”

You take a long sip of your drink. You cross your legs, leaning onto the arm of the couch and watching the man closely – he sits like son of someone regal. Posture and etiquette and charm. _Lots_ of charm. 

Arguably an unfair amount.

“I am,” he says, brows knotting, “Though, I must say I now understand the urgency in their request for your assassination.”

“And why’s that?”

“You’re _dangerous_.”

You laugh, like tinkering bells, and he eats up the sight.

“How kind of you to say,” you rumble, shaking your head slightly, “as the one who could throw me off this balcony right now with some unseen power.”

“Oh, Senator, never in broad daylight.”

The laugh shared between the two of you is like some sort of peace offering – and Fortem wonders if this agreement is one he will soon regret.


	3. TANGO OF WORDS.

“You really ought to lock that –”

This is the third time he’s let himself in.

“ _Oh!_ My _god_ ,” you grit in suprise, hand flown to your chest as you close your eyes and catch your breath, “You’ll be lucky if one of these days I don’t shoot you.”

Fortem laughs – a bit boyish and a bit airy – as he paces around your dinner table. It’s empty, aside from you, so he makes a point of leaning on the chair beside where you sit and watching you thoughtfully chew through your last bite of kibi steak. You avoid his eyes, instead wiping your mouth with your napkin and sipping your wine before you _allow_ him your full, undivided attention. 

You look pretty – your is hair relaxed along your shoulders and frame swathed in a simple, chiffon nightgown. It’s a deep indigo. Free from the war-paint of politics and smelling like expensive bath salts, you’re hardly the cunning woman he’s had running around in his head for the last three weeks. 

“Lovely spread.”

He doesn’t mean the candles or the fruits.

“I like to think myself a cook.”

He chuckles. 

You smirk. 

“… Did you _need_ something?”

“Oh,” he waves a gloved hand, “Hardly.”

An amused blink. Your eyes narrow in on him, light with some sort of emotion he can’t quite put his thumb on. You lean back in your chair and fiddle with a strand of your hair, gaze rooted on the peppering of a few greys in his beard that you never noticed. 

“And you’re here, _why?”_

_“_ Paying you a visit,” he shrugs, beginning to pace around, “Hoping you’d offer more brandy, I suppose. It was _rather good –”_

“You’re a pest,” you hiss playfully, standing then and moving past him. 

He’s gone and left the balcony doors open; the night isn’t too cold, but the late summer air of Coruscant’s Senate Distract does lend you to wrap your arms around yourself a bit tighter as you venture towards the bar by the open-air patio. 

He follows, watching as you make him a glass and he’s _surprised_ he’s gotten this far on the premise of brandy alone – he lingers over your shoulder as you pour the drink.

“I can feel you staring.”

Blunt. He doesn’t even pretend to play it off.

“Can you blame me?” Fortem croons, “Quite the sight you are, bathed in moonlight.“

You ignore the terribly delightful roll of heat that stirs in your belly. You spare him a faux-irritated look as you turn around, handing him the drink and moving towards the couches. 

“Have you come only to rob me of my brandy and shower me in gilded compliments, Lord Fortem,” you wave a hand, shaking your head, “or do you bring other news?”

“Always so _focused_ on business –”

“There’s still a _job_ to be done, is there not?”

_Touché_. 

He leans back, crosses his legs and hums. “Quite. I thought you’d be pleased to know I’ve arranged a meeting with the man who’d originally asked for your pretty little head on a silver platter.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. Tomorrow evening.”

You cross your arms, smugly chuckling. “I’m impressed.”

“You thought so little of me?”

“Well,” you pout, “I did nearly shoot you in the head the first time I met you –”

“An underestimation of your _wickedness,_ Senator, and it will not happen again, I assure you.”

“Well, then tell me, Lord Fortem, should I expect further _wickedness_ from you? Will you turn around and lob my head off clean, present it to whomever on a silver platter?”

He scoffs into his drink. “ _Betrayal_ , you mean?”

“You’re _hardly_ loyal to _me._ Betrayal references some sort of _bond.”_

Fortem shrugs. “I’m acting in my best interest.”

“And what’s that, Fortem?” you ask, tilting your head.

He offers a warm smile, one you would just hate to _trust._

_“You_ , of course, Senator.”


	4. A RISING THREAT.

You _are_ interesting.

Leaned against one of the far pillars, Fortem watches you with curiosity. 

Curtained by dark lashes, golden eyes jump across the scene playing out before him – you’re walking along with a handful of the other senators as the chamber is dismissed for the evening, face animated with a breath of kindness. You’re speaking softly to a woman he recognizes to be Padmé Amidala – the Senator to Naboo. 

Pretty little thing, she is. But, vastly outshone by your beauty. 

As you move to sweep past him, Fortem drops his chin and coughs; he flies under the radar of the cluster of politicians – but not you. No, at the back of the pack, you catch the clever smile on his lips clear as day. 

Recognition, promptly followed by _shock,_ flies across your face. 

Crossing his arms, he can’t help the small smirk that winds itself around his lips.

You stop in your tracks, glittering black dress twinkling in the setting sun of Coruscant. 

“Are you coming, Senator?” Padmé asks sweetly, a smile played upon her lips as she juts her chin to the other’s stepping into a Senate Transport, headed to the Federal District’s lower level, “We’d love if you joined up for dinner.”

Fortem watches, hand playing with his beard; half to hide his smug expression. 

“I’m afraid not. It seems I have some business to tend to tonight,” you sigh, frowning apologetically – you squeeze her hand. Fortem wonders how you became such a good actress. He can _feel_ enough irritation rolling off you in waves to know your soft voice is merely a show, “Though, please do have a drink for me, Senator Amidala.”

The words are enough for the former Queen of Naboo. She smiles, nods, then leaves to join the others. Once the she’s gone, you turn on a heel _fast_ – your head spins around as you _lurch_ towards Fortem, hand swatting at his chest as you round the pillar and hide you both in the dark. 

“What are you _doing here?!”_ you hiss, swatting at his hands as he raises them in a weak defense.

He’s laughing – that same _boyish_ chuckle he’d done in your quarters two nights prior when he’d slipped you gilded words of praise and sipped on your brandy stash. He leans around the pillar with a smile, only to have you shove him back into the shadows. 

“She’s rather pretty –”

“She’s _dangerous_ ,” you bite, eyes fleeting shut in annoyance.

“Oh?” he digs, “Coming from you –”

“She’s close with the _Jedi Council_ ,” you breathe, raising a finger and pointing with a controlled sense of rage, “And as much as I can’t stand you –”

“Be still my beating heart,” he shirks, crossing his arms and quirking his head, “Are you _worried_ for me, Senator?”

You grit your jaw tightly, dropping your head into your hands and worrying your brow. Your circlet tinkers as you do so, hair pulled back tightly and up away from the low sweep of your neckline. Fortem admires you for a moment as you rub the bridge of your nose and exhale tiredly. 

“What is it you need, Fortem?”

“Must I _need_ something to see my favorite Senator?”

“Oh,” you laugh bitterly, “You’re doing nefarious business with other Senators, then?”

Fortem makes a face. Half-way between a frown and a snarl. 

“I’d rather –”

“Rather be put on trial by the Jedi Council?”

“Enough already. You’ve made your point –”

“Have I?” you bite, jabbing a finger into his chest, “As fun as this _little game_ of yours is, it’s _dangerous._ You will be arrested, put on trial, and I will _follow_.”

Sand-colored brows quirk as he crosses his arms and recoils a bit. The expression that slips onto his face, for only a moment, could be akin to hurt – or maybe, distaste. You aren’t terrible sure.

“’ _Little game of mine’?”_

_“_ Do you think me _naïve_ , Darth Fortem? Sneaking around, coming into my apartment unannounced –” you voice is low and soft like satin.

He scoffs, eyes twinkling with amusement. You note the beauty mark along his right cheekbone. The corners of his eyes crease as he laughs; his voice is level with a threat.

“ _You_ are certainly something, Senator.”

“Something you _like_ , clearly –”

“I came here to warn you,” he snaps, then, leaning forward as a spark of rage lights up between you, “That someone tipped off the target. I showed up, he didn’t. _Someone_ knows you hired me – and someone _talked.”_

“That’s… _impossible_.”

And yet, here he is, exasperatedly running a hand through his pristine hair – concern painted on his face. “You deserved to know.”

Suddenly you feel a bit bad for the jabs; you exhale slowly, wrapping your arms around yourself. 

“Any word from the target?”

“None.”

“Right.”

“You’re panicking.”

“I am _not_ –”

Suddenly, his hand is on your arm.

He speaks firmly, voice a bit warmer than you’ve grown accustomed to. His eyes connect with yours for a moment; then they roam your face as he urges his reassurance. 

“Senator, I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Your eyes fleet shut in surrender as you sigh. “Thank you –”

“You are _paying me,_ after all.”

_This_ bastard.


	5. FREE-FALL AT MIDNIGHT.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You've got a visitor.

You’ve been worrying.

It’s not necessarily in your _nature_ to worry – though, given the circumstances, you suppose you can find reason enough to allow the slip in your usual icy confidence. 

Fortem, earlier that day, had passed along word of warning. The idiot had been brazen enough to waltz into the Senate to speak to you on the matter. Though you laud his _conceit_ towards his own abilities to remain unseen and unheard, you can’t help but admit that his appearance earlier, and the news he brought, had pricked a spiral of nasty hypotheticals. 

You huff, pushing manicured fingers along your brow. 

The data-pad in your lap has long since been forgotten in exchange for worry over _who_ had blabbed – certainly not her personal guards, no. They’d not been present for the arrangement. However, maybe someone made an assumption regarding the Sith Lord’s company. Surely the lot of them had connects back home on Corellia… 

Or, maybe it was Fortem himself… playing some sort of _game –_

There’s a sound outside. A crash from the patio.

Speak of the devil.

You can’t help but roll your eyes, dropping the personal data-pad to the cushion beside you as you sigh haughtily and stand. Your inky nightgown, satin and short, clings to your figure as you pull your robe closer around yourself. You’d left the doors to the patio open, figuring the Sith would show up at some point – and certainly now that it is well past a reasonable hour, he’s made his presence known. 

“Come on in, then,” you call, drifting towards the kitchenette to discard your now cold mug of tea, “And close the door behind you.”

Another sound. As if someone had knocked something over. 

You stiffen.

“Fortem…?”

You mug clatters in the sink, forgotten in favor of moving towards the island and swiping your hands along the drawer – the knife you find in your hands is _not_ meant for self-defense, but _chopping vegetables._ It’ll have to do. Your blaster is in the bedroom. Far out of reach. 

Your eyes are glued to the dark doorway leading to the balcony.

“Give it up,” you call, knife flipping in your grip so the handle is held tight in your fist; your bare footsteps are quiet as you move closer to the source of the sound outside, “This isn’t funny –”

You freeze, a foot from the doorway.

That’s when you hear the breathing.

In a blink, there’s a face in the archway. Before you can even scream out of _shock_ , there’s another – two milky-eyed Clawdites lunge to grab your wrists; they haul you outside, sending you skidding across the patio as you yelp. The knife clatters from your grip feet away. You inhale sharply, hair in your eyes as you watch from the ground as the two circle you like you’re their prey.

_Not_ Fortem. 

Right.

The moment you move, it kick-starts the fray. You scramble suddenly, moving towards the knife and sliding your body around the couch – one of them gives a _horrible sound_ at your cat-like movement, hissing and launching into a sprint as you grab the knife. You’re about to stand when you’re tackled backwards, collapsing atop the clari-crystalline coffee table and _shattering it_ completely. You scream, the pain of the crystal shards digging into your back _burns_ and drives you to kick the assailant off in a panic.

You fumble, hands shifting through the glass shards to find the knife before the other grabbed a fistful of your hair, rendering you nearly immobile as you swipe blindly at the attacker. You’re about to scream when a gloved hand smothers the sound, knife forgotten in an attempt to claw the hand off your nose and mouth so you can _breathe_ –

And that’s when Fortem decides to show up.

A gallant red saber ignites in the doorway of the apartment, painting the Sith Lord brandishing it all kinds of color of rage. If you’d had the time, maybe you would have admired him – but instead, you’re gasping for air as you’re hauled to your feet and a vibroblade is shoved against your ribs. 

Your feet step over the glass as one of the Clawdites hauls you backwards, the attack suddenly turned into a hostage situation at the appearance of the Sith.

“Now what have we here?” Fortem croons, lips pulled into a snarl, “A hired hit?”

His saber hums dangerously as he strides forward, sending the two assassins staggering backwards towards the patio’s docking platform. The two chitter in their native tongue, exchanging fearless glances with one another, as the Sith swaggers forward and over the now shattered table. 

“The Black Sun,” the Clawdite snarls, “Cannot be _controlled_ by the likes of the Senate –”

“Is that true?” Fortem huffs, swaying his saber. He flourishes it, sending the assassins staggering back faster, “The Black Sun hired you, then?”

One of them swallows, knife digging deeper into your ribs. It shred the satin of your nightgown and you can _feel_ the tip of the dagger pressing hotly to your skin. You grit your teeth, hands still clawing at the arm around your neck. 

“You _betrayed_ the Black Sun –”

“ _Hardly,”_ Fortem laughs, cracking his neck as he steps up onto the platform, “Now, why don’t you leave the pretty senator be, and we can _talk_ about this like the true scoundrels _we all are._ ”

Unprotected by the apartments architecture, it’s windy on the platform’s farthest point. Your robes whip about you, hair wild in the evening breeze as traffic whirs by beneath the landing pad. 

It’s when one of the clawdites brandishes a blaster, you get a bad feeling in your gut. It’s pointed straight at Fortem, though he doesn’t flinch. No, he just keeps moving forward until the clawdite gripping you in a chokehold has reached the end of the platform. The edge of their boot teeters on the edge.

“Come now, let the Senator go.”

Poor choice of words.

Suddenly, you’re _flung_ backwards and off the platform. 

“Damn it.”

In two showmanship-like swipes of his saber, he cuts down the two assassins before unceremoniously _launching_ himself off the balcony – this really was the _last thing_ he wanted to be doing. In fact, as your screams trail you on the way down, Fortem can’t help but wonder if this is how you saw _your_ night going. 

Certainly not, if he could tell anything from the pretty little satin slip you’d had on.

He leans into the pull of gravity, heading towards an open-top speeder with his name practically written on it. 

It’s easy enough to haul the driver out, and Fortem doesn’t even blink when he rams the joystick back towards his chest and floors it – the speeder catches up to you rather quickly – in the free-fall through Coruscant’s midnight traffic, you can hardly believe he’s _doing this._

_“_ Need a lift?”

You scramble to the back of the speeder, grip faltering along the glossy paint-job. You move along the engine, crawling up the speeder as it continues its downward trajectory. The moment your feet find the passengers seat, he pulls up, sending your momentum downward and into the waxy, jet-black passengers side. Your hair falls around you, wide-swept and wild, and your robe is half-on. Your slip’s straps hang off your shoulders. 

He slows up, speeders engines giving a low whine.

You’re trying to catch your breath, shaking hands planted on the dashboard as you hunch over your knees. Fortem, beside you, exhales and runs a hand through his now wild ruddy blonde hair. He’s as winded as you. 

“I could kiss you,” you finally muster, shaking your head and closing your eyes tightly.

It’s breathless and weighted with shock.

_Sounds nice,_ he thinks. 

“Maybe once you’re not _bleeding_ all over my seats, yes?”

You suppose all that worrying was worth it.


	6. THE HAND THAT HEALS.

Fortem is – _well_ … 

Fortem is uncomfortable and _out of place._

He certainly feels that way as he putters about your kitchen, poking around and taking in the more _home-y_ aspects of your apartment. The maids are cleaning up the remnants of the rather eventful evening outside and three of your personal guards are hanging about the living area, muttering in hushed Corellian; they’ve just handled the bodies, handing them off to Coruscant’s organized crime unit. 

You’d insisted the authorities let your personal guards handle the matter as to keep it quiet – and so, three Coruscant’s detectives had been escorted out by the Captain of your security personnel.

His name is Flaveek. 

Fortem doesn’t trust him.

Three sets of eyes turn to him as their conversation lulls – just in time for the Captain aforementioned to exit your bedroom and close the door behind him.

“She is requesting you,” Flaveek’s eyes slip to the Sith leaning against the sink, “Lord Fortem.”

His name is spit out like a curse.

The Sith kicks from the sink then, swaggering towards your bedroom door and narrowing his gilded gaze in the direction of the armored man as he passes with a measured level of malice – all before entering your bedroom quietly and shutting the door behind him. 

He’s surprised to find you in the refresher, rummaging through the cabinets there – you’ve stopped bleeding some time ago, but having hung up your tattered robe on the door, Fortem can now see the deep lacerations along your back and shoulders; your hands have been dealt with, cleaned and wrapped where necessary. 

“Red isn’t your color.”

Your laugh is weak.

He leans on the doorframe. 

“I need your help.”

A ruddy blonde brow quirks. You finally find what you’re looking for – an aid kit complete with bacta, tweezers, and bandages – and hold it out to him as you shut the cabinet and stand back up.

Fortem eyes the kit. Then, you. And finally, he takes it.

“Why me?” he asks slowly, watching as you hobble to the side of the bath and settle down, clearly in pain. You haven’t looked at him yet, face turned to the far side of the Wayland marble room. Fortem frowns, “Why not the dashing Captain Flaveek?”

“Because I am not entirely sure I can trust him.”

… And yet, _somehow,_ you trust _him?_

The Sith holds his doubtful tongue, moving to pop open the kit and place it upon the dark quartz counter. He stands at the sink, back to you, as runs the tweezers under hot water. You watch him, noting his square posture and focused attention. Fortem looks up, catches your gaze in the mirror, and ignores the feeling the sight stirs in his gut.

You look _horrible._

It’s _clear_ you’d been crying – no doubt far from the prying eyes of himself and the other guards. He can’t quite _imagine it,_ mostly because you still hold an air of capability while looking as if you’d been dragged through hell all while hanging off the back of a bantha. 

You can _tell_ he notices. His face softens. 

You bristle, prepared to volley a jab, but… it never comes.

Instead, Fortem doesn’t say anything of your state of dishevel, and instead focuses on gathering a pad of gauze and settling behind you on the edge of the tub. 

“You suspect he had something to do with this? Flaveek?” he asks measuredly after a minute, cold hands pressing the strap of your nightgown down your shoulders. The fabric snags on a rather large piece of glass stuck there – he swallows his displeasure, muttering an apology, before gently lifting the fabric from the injury and guiding it downwards. 

You pull your knees upward, ignoring the cold air now gracing the skin of your back. The nightgown falls around your waist, bare chest pressed to your thighs as you hold your legs close.

Fortem sweeps a stray tress of hair over your shoulder. 

You speak slowly. “The guard rotation was due thirty minutes before our unwanted guests arrived. I would have remember if –… I would have remembered if they made their rounds. I’d been awake. _Worrying_.”

Fortem’s brow knots. He swallows, moving to gently pull at the largest shard still stuck in your skin with the tweezers in his steady hands. _Eugh._

You barely flinch. He lets the shard tinker in the sink.

“Have you said a word of any of this to him?”

“No,” you mumble, trying to distract yourself with the sound of his breathing, “Played the woeful damsel.”

A snort. “You’re hardly the case.”

Your shoulders shake once – a pathetic laugh escapes your throat. Barely a huff of air. Fortem, as he cleans out the deepest wound, manages a wry smirk.

“Where’d the knife come from?”

Oh. The fight.

“Kitchen,” you mumble, wincing slightly as Fortem spreads bacta onto the wound on your right shoulder with gentle fingers. In an instant, though, the pain melts away in favor of a slight numbness and then warmth, “I thought it was _you_ on the balcony but –”

“ _Goodness_ ,” he chides, rolling his eyes, “Have I not told you to lock that door?”

“Mind your tongue,” you mutter bitterly at his scorn, “I’m not a child.”

“You’re _not_ – yet, look at us now.”

You turn, sparing him an icy look over your shoulder. 

He raises his tweezers in a light-threat. “Bite the hand that heals. I dare you.”

You huff a haughty little sound at that, turning back to prop your chin up on your knees. Fortem pulls another shard are clari-crystalline from your skin. It falls into the sink with a _ttk-tiink-tiik._ He wipes it with the gauze, then gently presses bacta along the wound. His fingers are warm now, and you let the touch linger in your thoughts. 

“Did the Black Sun hire you?” you ask after a few moments, “For the original hit?”

Fortem snorts. “No. As if I’d entertain _them_.”

“Then… Crimson Dawn…?”

He raises a brow, leaning around you to get a look at your expression. It’s tame, but timid. 

“Have you a _history_ with Crimson Dawn?”

You bite your tongue, eyes bouncing across his face before you turn away, settling your gaze on the far wall of the refresher. “I was a working girl for one of the syndicate’s Lieutenants back on Corellia for some time.”

Fortem makes a sound akin to surprise. You shoot him a look over your shoulder.

“ _Working girl_ –?”

“I made fancy cocktails and sat around to look pretty, nothing more, there were no extracurriculars involved; now get your head out of the gutter –”

“ _Lean forward,_ ” he mutters softly, a hand pressing you over your knees a bit more so he can inspect the wound on your lower back, “I’m listening. No nightcaps – go on.”

You roll your eyes. He smiles to himself.

“When the powers transitioned – and they always do – I took everything I had and left the syndicate. I pulled some strings, enrolled in University on Coruscant. I walked away from it all. But, I suppose I know some things that members may see as a problem. You _hear_ things – and perhaps, I’m a loose end.”

“Crimson Dawn wouldn’t be interested in cleaning up the petty gossip overheard at a dinner party,” Fortem mumbles, “And they weren’t the ones who hired me.”

“Then who?”

“He operated under a pseudonym and used a proxy – I figured, if anything, he was a disgruntled trader from Corellia.”

“What name did he give?”

Fortem’s breath fans across your shoulders as he leans in, prying a rather small piece of glass from your back. Annoyance flares in his features. “What, would you like to see a gift receipt?”

“… You mean to tell me you don’t remember his name?”

“He didn’t _provide one_ ,” Fortem bites, touch still remaining gentle despite his hitch in tone, “And in my area of expertise, you certainly _do not_ ask who’s the one sending you on _errands_.”

“Then how are you _sure_ he wasn’t Crimson Dawn, Fortem?” you snarl, irritated with the way one of his warm hands balances itself along your waist as he plucks a stubborn piece of debris from your shoulder, “Riddle me that?”

“Because I _know_ Crimson Dawn.”

You blink.

“The tattoo on your neck –”

“He’s my brother,” Fortem explains curtly, “Maul, the one who staged the coupe within the syndicate. The tattoo is Dathomirian.”

_ Oh.  _

“… And is that relation by blood?”

His hands falter. That was a joke, tight lipped and hissed, but a joke. He laughs – deep and soft. It eases some of your discomfort.

“No,” Fortem shakes his head, dropping the tweezers to the sink and ignoring the blood on his fingertips as he reaches for a strip of bacta patches, “He trained me.”

“Well,” you huff, “This conversation got us no where.”

“What?” he balks, “Sharing our personal histories as I nurse your wounds isn’t _romantic_ enough for you, Senator?”

Goodness, you hate him. 


	7. LOYALTY SUGGESTS TRUST, DOESN'T IT?

He doesn’t mean to, but Fortem falls asleep on your sofa that night, shortly after the guards are dismissed and the maids finally finish cleaning. 

You emerge from your bedroom in the wee hours of the night to find him dozing – he’s sitting upright on the sofa, arms crossed, boots still on, and head lulled back at an odd angle against the back of the cushions. His typically well-kept hair has flopped from it’s usual immaculate style and his lashes kiss his rosy cheeks as he snores quietly. 

It’s… rather _cute_.

He’s a bit like a loyal massiff in this moment, you realize, guarding the apartment that had been broken into not a handful of hours before. 

… All without you _asking_ for him to do so. 

You’re especially quiet as you sneak around him, moving through across the plush carpet slowly. The black robe around your shoulders is loose – you’d forgone the now _ruined_ satin nightgown you’d been unceremoniously tossed from your apartment in, opting instead to sit in the bath for maybe a _bit_ too long before clambering into the soft, plush robe in lieu of _anything._ You wanted nothing touching the deep scrapes along your back if you could help it. 

(You’d already ordered a new coffee table for the patio to replace the one you’d been _tackled through._ This one is Wayland marble. As shatter-proof as it comes.)

After a moment of consideration, you move to the cabinet in the hall and gather a blanket – it’s soft and warm and big enough that it should keep the Sith comfortable… But, with a little bit of concern, you grab a second throw just in case. And a pillow. 

You place the blankets down on the cushion beside him before leaning over and pressing your fingers to his knee. 

“ _Fortem_.”

He quite literally _jumps_ awake, inhaling sharply as bright golden eyes blink at you in confusion. Sleep weighs down his eyelids and his nostrils flare as he blinks around trying to get his bearings. 

“Wha’s wrong?” he mumbles, hand reaching out to find yours as another hand breaks to rubs his eyes, “S’everything alright?”

Goodness, you look like something out his dreams. As Fortem blinks up at you, he can’t help but eat up the sight of you in your robe; one long, bare leg peeks out from where it’s belted tightly as you lean over him. Your hair swims across your shoulders and your face is soft in the dim light pouring in from the trafficked air-lanes outside the big bay-windows behind the sofa. 

“I felt a bit guilty letting you freeze,” you mutter as you pull yourself from his gentle hold; you get to busying yourself with unfolding one of the blankets, “I’d rather not tarnish my reputation of being anything but a welcoming host.”

His posture relaxes. Fortem sniffles, scratching his beard. “… Thank you.”

A gentle nod. You hand the blanket to him before patting the other. “In case it’s not enough.”

The Sith eyes the gesture for a moment before speaking slowly. “Have you been up since…?”

His words trail off as he watches you move across the room; you gather a glass of water from the counter and sip it, your eyes slipping along his face as he speaks. 

There’s a hesitancy in the question; as if he’s broaching on an area of informality with you that could be dangerous. Getting to _know_ someone _is_ a rather dangerous task, Fortem has come to understand. Especially if that someone is a wickedly wonderful Senator willing to front credits for an orchestrated hit. It’s easier to get by on acquaintance-level relationships, anyways. No… No _mushy emotions_ like worry or concern or affection. 

All things he’s feeling for you as you decide to settle on the sofa beside him. 

Fortem rather likes you. You’re… _interesting._

Your nails tinker against the glass. 

“Can you blame me?”

“No,” he responds gently, moving to gracelessly kick his boots off. He leans forward on his knees, propping them up beside the couch, “It has been a rather wild night, after all.”

You snort. Fortem smirks.

He leans back and undoes the wide, leather belt around his waist – he sets it beside him on the side-table. His lightsaber _clunks_ down on the marble. Fortem cards his hands through his hair and leans back against the cushions once more, this time looking infinitely more comfortable and infinitely more like a predator guarding its nest.

“You should rest.”

It’s soft. 

You frown into your cup. Fortem notices. The fluffy-haired Sith nudges your knee with his. 

“I mean it.”

You give a haughty huff. Your usual staple. Rather cute, if he’s being honest with himself.

“… _Fine_.”

“I’ll be here if it’s any consolation, I’ll be here,” he chirps as you stand, moving to drape the blanket across his lap, “Playing watch dog.”

“Try not to snore too loud –”

He guffaws, chest shaking as you round the sofa. Fortem can see the play of a smile on your lips – it’s barely there, a ghost of an expression. It flickers across your lips like a hearth-fire and has him feeling rather content. 

You pat his shoulder as you duck by. 

“Goodnight, dear Senator.”

A scoff. “Goodnight, Fortem.”


	8. DOMESTICITY UNHINGED.

He wakes to sound of something sizzling in a pan on the oven, the smell wafting over to his perch among the cushions on your sofa. 

The Sith inhales long and slow, pulling his eyes open as he shifts in the small nest he’d burrowed himself into throughout the night – the two blankets you’d provided, plush and soft, are around his legs and his robe is balled up beneath his head, making him look like he’s drowning in a river of bedding. He can _feel_ a crick in his neck from the odd angle he’d dozed off in, having been guarding the apartment with more seriousness than he’d originally anticipated. 

He couldn’t help it, though, after you’d ambled from your room at an odd hour with anxiety painted over your usually stoic features. It was… out of character for you. Though, the Sith couldn’t blame you. There’d been an attempt on your _life_ earlier that night. Sleep, for many, wouldn’t come easy after a threat to that degree. Even for an icy, powerful, young Senator who has a Sith Lord wrapped around her very thumb. 

Fortem exhales. He pulls himself upright and blinks blearily over the back of the couch at the morning sun streaming in through the floor to ceiling windows. 

_ When in the seven hells did she pull the shades up? Had he really slept through that? _

The morning traffic has already begun, the sound of the air-lanes humming by. It dances on the plush, maroon carpet. The light is soft, warm and sweet – the exact opposite of how Fortem looks right about now. 

He has to fight the temptation to fall back into the cushions. 

Fortem’s hair is strewn about, with his auburn cowlick pointing straight up, yet simultaneously in every direction possible. His black under-tunic is the only thing around his shoulders. After all, he’d hucked his top robes off his body in a flash of heat in the middle of the night. Your apartment had been _freezing_ one minute, then unbearably hot the next. He was trying to get _comfortable._

Fortem scratches his beard as he swings his legs off the couch. Woolen socks meet the carpet and he cracks his neck, rubs his face, all before being greeted with a soft laugh from your direction.

You’re slipping a prevva egg omelette onto a plate for him as you speak, gaze lingering on the sleepy Sith from your spot at the kitchen’s island.

“I was worried you’d gone and died in your sleep, Darth Fortem.”

Fortem groans and stands, moving to snatch his tunic and tug it over his head. As he does, you spy the hem of his long-sleeve lift, showing a trail of hair up his abdomen that matches that of his beard along with _dark_ Dathomirian tattoos – you pretend having not caught the sight, lowering your eyes as you fix yourself a plate for breakfast while he clears his throat and moves to fix the mess he’d made of the couch in his sleep.

And his hair. Gods, his hair is a mess. Atrocious. He fusses it down.

His is hoarse with sleep when he finally speaks. “I might as well have. How long have you been up, then?”

“Not long,” you tut, switching off the oven and gathering the two plates. You move gracefully across the apartment, dropping the plates at their spots on the dining table outlooking the air-lanes of Coruscant’s morning traffic. It’s practiced, and Fortem wonders if you’ve made breakfast for many _overnight_ guests before.

He steps from the sofa, moving towards the table that you’ve settled at – you sit unlike he’s seen before. One leg pulled to your chest, arms leaned around to dig at the omelette on the delicate china plate. Your fork and knife tinker softly against the setting as you drop a bite into your mouth and chew.

You look softer – less… _dangerous._ Fortem wonders if it’s the warm light of the morning, or the domesticity radiating from your actions. He settles down at the table without a word, golden eyes glued to you the entire time he moves.

You shift in your seat as Fortem chews, _happily_ realizing you _are_ a good cook; he spares you a sheepish look as he digs in for another bite. 

“Hungry?” you ask softly after swallowing your mouthful, a polished example of etiquette even in the informal setting of a hit-man and his employer eating _breakfast_ together, “There’s another carton in the fridge –”

“You didn’t need to feed me.”

“I don’t have guests often,” you shrug, “It’s rare I cook for someone aside from myself – and you _did_ pluck me from a free-fall last night. This is the least I could do for _saving my life_.”

You gather your napkin from your lap, placing your fork and knife down as you stand – Fortem continues his endeavor on finishing his plate, stealing a side-ways glance as you move across the apartment. You snatch something from the counter, then sit back down. 

You’re still in your robe from the night before, hair relaxed and face bare – he spies a glimmer of gold along your neckline and tries his best not to stare at your décolletage as you slide a platinum card his way. 

Manicured nails recoil as his face warps in confusion.

“Your payment.”

His mouth is full. He chews quickly, eyeing you and the card and you again, before snagging the credit crypto-card with a measured level of scrutiny. 

He’s only seen these a handful of times before – but it makes sense. It’s an account, essentially, operating off your usual banking chain-code and heavily encrypted. Maul had once copped a collection of these little beauties; not even the best cryto-pirates in the guild had been able to slice the binds off the credit transfer system. 

Reliable, clean, _secretive_. 

Perfect payment for a man of Fortem’s caliber.

His brows are knotted. “I’ve not delivered my end of the –”

“The deal has changed,” you mutter, “I think it’s fair to say.”

His fork wavers in the air. Golden eyes blink at you. 

“I’d like to keep you around,” you say finally, digging around your omelette and pushing the egg about on your plate, “Until this is sorted and I find out _who_ is trying to ensure I end up dead… For the price of triple our original agreement, if you agree.”

“Forget the price.”

You balk. 

He doesn’t even look up, just forks another mouthful and chews. Fortem’s jaw tightens as he does which gives you a better view of the tattoos along the column of his throat and neck. They’re jagged and puzzle-like, running like deep rivers across his skin. They disappear beneath his collar and the stubble of his beard. You wonder if they’re _everywhere;_ his chest, of course, but his arms? Legs? Back?

You can see the edges of some peeking out from the hem of his under-tunic’s cuff, darting up his wrist. Typically, his hands are hidden beneath jet-black, leather gloves. But now, in the morning sun, you can see the callouses and scars alongs his knuckles from years of fighting.

His gaze meets yours. “I _am_ serious, stop looking at me like that.”

“… Why?”

A shrug. He tosses his napkin onto his now empty plate and sits back. He crosses his arms and shrugs. Fortem speaks slowly, ignoring the annoyed wane of his heart and mindful logic as he does. 

“Wouldn’t be very _chivalrous_ of me to take advantage of a kind Senator in need, would it?”

You narrow your eyes, albeit playfully. “And what of _serving your best interest_?”

Fortem shrugs. “You said it yourself; things have changed.”

His lips quirk and your face plays at something just as amused. Your lashes flutter, a scoff on your tongue, when _suddenly_ , there’s a call at the door. 

A sharp knock, followed by the buzzer announcing loudly:

“– Senator, Sir Praze from the Financial District is here for you.”

Your head whips up from the meal. 

Fortem makes a face.

Instantly, you’ve sprung up; your eyes are wider than ever, face contorting into an expression that fleets between worry and fear and anxiety all at the same time. Fortem screws his brow as you usher him up with hushed words and gentle hands.

“Get up,” you hiss, “Into the bedroom.”

“What?”

You move quickly across the room, hands pressing the buzzer as you speak cooly into it. “One moment. Send him up.”

Fortem is confused – but suddenly realizes that you’re about to receive a _guest_ … and can’t help but snort. You swat away any remarks he’s about to croon your way with your hand, opening the door to your bedroom and nearly _shoving him in._

_“_ Stay here and,” you bite your tongue, “Just… be quiet, Fortem, _please_.”

He leans on the door frame. 

“So _ashamed_ of me, dear?”

“ _Terribly_ ,” you bite, smacking his arm away as you close the door, grumbling as you do, “Please! This… _of course_ he’d show up –”

Fortem is then left with the sight of your door as you hurry away and slam it quickly in a haze. 

From the other side of the door, he hears you greet _someone_ – this Sir Praze character, he assumes – rather stiffly before a moment of silence washes over the room and Fortem has to lean his ear to the door to get a good listen.

_ “My love, I’d been so worried.” _

… Oh. How _curious._


End file.
